coming around
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "There are times, more and more frequent, when she wants him to stop acting like some sort of glorified chaperone and acknowledge what he really is, and ought to be. A stalker." Tseng has never been the most forthcoming about who and what Aerith is to him, and she's getting tired of it. A two-shot, post-CC and pre-FFVII. Contains past Zack/Aerith. I do not own FFVII.
1. moving on

" _You were… serious?"  
_ " _No. But I liked him for a while."_

It starts with a late-summer storm.

If there's one advantage to living in the slums, it's that the thunder can rumble all it likes, but the lightning will never strike. That's the only reason Aerith is brave enough to stand under the opening in the old church ceiling and let the rain pour over her.

This is the closest to the sky she's ever felt, apart from whenever Zack was with her. Given that the rain is falling cleanly through, it seems nobody ever got around to fixing the hole he left in the plate, years ago now. Aerith closes her eyes, imagining it as a hallowed site up above. _S_ _OLDIER First Class Zack Fair Fell Through This Gap_.

She stands there for a long time, soaking in the rainwater. It feels cold and refreshing and _alive_ , and for a moment Aerith almost feels complete, in a way she's never known and can't describe. Staying in Midgar is killing her soul, but this is the only home she knows. And it isn't as though she can escape it with Shinra watching her every move, anyway.

"What are you doing?"

Right on cue. The only thing that surprises Aerith is that the voice belongs to Tseng. They haven't spoken since he expected her to believe Zack had been killed in action, the better part of a year ago. Maybe it would be more convenient for that to be true, but Aerith knows better.

"Trying to feel him," she says, spreading her arms to embrace the rain. "It's his nineteenth birthday today."

Tseng sighs. Aerith feels more than hears it, in the chill of the breeze wrapping around her. "He's gone, Aerith."

"He's not. You're just saying things. You _always_ just say things." Except for the times things need saying the most. The last contact they had came in the form of a card in the mailbox on her eighteenth birthday, hand-delivered and unsigned. Apart from accepting her letters to Zack, and probably screening them for security reasons, Tseng has stayed out of the way ever since.

Aerith wishes he wouldn't. Of the Turks, he is the one she understands least, and consequently the one she wants to know most. Tseng has been in Shinra for as many years as Aerith has been out of it, and by now, he's spent longer there than she ever did. He's shut off his heart so tightly that she can barely tell who he is anymore, if she ever knew.

Aerith must rely on Tseng's expressions to guess his thoughts, often in subtle contrast with his behavior. Slight frowns and faint smiles. Brief hesitations and rare gesticulations. The tension in his posture, or occasionally the lack thereof. His deliberate choice of words, and pauses that mean just as much. Yet perceiving that discrepancy doesn't tell Aerith what Tseng actually thinks, only that it's always been different somehow from the way he acts.

"Come out of the rain," says Tseng, his voice as carefully measured as his approaching footsteps. "You're going to catch a chill."

"What do you care?" asks Aerith, turning to face him. She must be soaked through by now, probably half indecent, but Tseng doesn't so much as glance down at her. Instead, he looks skyward, and there is a long silence before he answers.

"If you're doing this for him, then think of what _he_ would want."

Tseng is never wrong, and he knows it. That much, at least, is consistent. It would have been easier if he'd given an order, because then at least Aerith could resent him for it. Instead, she has little choice but to recognize the truth in his words, and acquiesce. As she steps back into the dry in reluctant obedience, Tseng removes his suit jacket and drapes it around her shoulders to keep her warm.

Aerith freezes. He does not touch her directly, but it's been many years since he's even come this close. Since she was a child, and he was barely more than that. Maybe Tseng feels it too, because there is the slightest hesitation before he says, "Let's go."

He does not look at Aerith, but waits for her to start walking before he follows. Pulling the jacket closer around herself as she goes, she sneaks a surreptitious peek back at him. Another contradiction. Tseng has always seemed so frigid, but this lingering heat proves otherwise. His light scent wreathes around her, clerical smells interwoven with his cologne—subtle and dangerous, like a false sense of security. Or maybe just like him.

Sometimes Aerith catches herself thinking of Tseng like the Big Bad Wolf, walking Little Red Riding Hood home. The only difference is that _this_ wolf has a strict schedule, and eating her comes later. So much later, in fact, that Little Red has grown up in his company.

Accordingly, Aerith is accustomed to the distance Tseng places between them, as intentional as everything else he does. He never walks alongside her, but simply follows her home and hangs back as she approaches the door. Often, he remains out of sight, but this time there is no reason to hide. However, even out in the open, Tseng draws no nearer, merely watching her from afar like always.

Aerith only dares look back at him once she arrives at her doorstep. To her surprise, she finds that he's never looked more real than in the slums' damp approximation of rain. Under that uniform, he's just another man. _Young_ , even. Twenty-five or so, lean and muscular and anything but a ghost.

Maybe it's more obvious since he doesn't look so clean-cut anymore. His once-crisp white shirt has been spattered with dirty rainwater, leaked from the plate above, and clings half-translucent to his skin in patches. But Tseng either hasn't noticed or doesn't care, because he turns away.

"Your jacket," calls Aerith, holding it out.

Pausing, Tseng tosses a glance over his shoulder, but does not raise his voice. "I'm off-duty now. I'll collect it next time."

As he fades into the evening, Aerith has the strangest impulse to reach out after him, almost as though she wants him to come back. Maybe, on some level unknown to her, she does.

* * *

Nineteen, and Aerith remembers the hard way that no amount of being careful can ever protect a woman in Wall Market. Even with a staff at her side, it was inevitable that one day, she would push her luck.

It's almost sundown, as near as anyone in the slums can tell, and Aerith has been cornered in a dusky alleyway. She might have been able to handle one man, but he had too many friends. They hunted her in a pack, herding her through side streets until they had her at a dead end. Aerith had been mugged before, but this many of them, in this part of town, at this time of day… they weren't after her gil.

Power rose within her alongside the panic. Fire spilled forth from her staff like the curses from her lips, and one of the men yowled in pain as tendrils of flame ensnared him. But Aerith's strength was lessened by her trepidation. If she accidentally killed anyone, or set Sector 6 ablaze, there would be hell enough to pay that even her body could never make up the difference.

Momentary as Aerith's hesitation was, it was time enough for another man to act on it. Snatching her staff away, he cut her spell short and turned to tend to the man she'd burned. Two others took each of her arms and hauled her back before she could run, pinning her against the wall. And now—coming back to herself, half dazed—she finds the leader pointing a dagger at her throat.

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." His voice is as rough as his manners, and his eyes as dark as his intent. "You're in good hands."

"Wh-what do you want?" Aerith knows already, of course, but the only thought in her head is buying time until the Turks can save her. She tries to stop her voice from shaking, but isn't sure how successful she is, because the man grins.

"Us? Just a little look-see, that's all." He rests his blade on the neckline of Aerith's dress. "The don still needs a fix for tonight, and he'll have our heads if we don't get him something fine. Fighting back like that, it seems to me like nobody's broken you in yet, so we might've hit the jackpot. But we'll still need to make sure you're to his taste before we send you along."

Aerith's chest feels too tight to breathe, but she takes as deep a breath as she can, glancing down at the knife. Her thoughts feel sluggish and slippery in her mind, so that she can only cling to one. All she has to do is draw their attention till the Turks can step in. All she has to do…

"All right," says Aerith, hearing her own voice as if from a great distance. "Fine. Just don't ruin my dress. It's the nicest one I've got." She looks up at the leader with an effort. "You look like you've got your hands full, anyway. May I…?"

The man hesitates, but then gestures briefly with the dagger, and the two holding back Aerith's arms release her—but do not step back. She takes a moment to shake out her hands, getting her blood flowing again, and several expectant pairs of eyes burn into her. Steeling herself, she moves her trembling fingers up to undo her buttons, just below the leader's blade.

One.

Two.

Tseng.

Even prepared for his intervention, Aerith doesn't notice him until he says, "Let her go," and she's never been so glad to hear his quiet voice. He's crept up unnoticed, gun at the ready and trained on the leader's head. But even his sudden appearance is not enough of a distraction for Aerith to be able to slip out of danger. Instead, she holds her breath and waits.

The men all shift in place uneasily, exchanging uncertain glances. They can see well enough that someone like Tseng doesn't belong down here, but also that he's perfectly at ease amid the dust and shadows. And prepared to kill.

"She yours?" asks the leader, the first to speak.

Tseng's answer is immediate and forthright, his voice as unwavering as his stance. "She's under the protection of the Turks."

"Let's see you protect her, then," says the leader, and Aerith shudders as the point of his blade touches her skin. "You're only one man, and her life don't mean nothing to us."

"But yours do," says Tseng, not stirring an inch. "Try to kill her, and I kill you. Your don works for us, so he's not going to miss you." His finger tightens on the trigger, almost imperceptibly. "Now, _drop the knife_."

It's the most serious Aerith has ever heard Tseng, and she shivers at his icy tone. Yet there is no malice in his eyes, only a sense of intent purpose. The man must see it too, because he cannot meet them for long. The dagger clatters to the ground and he flees, his allies practically tripping over one another in their haste to follow—no hint of the coordination that trapped Aerith in the first place, as they drag the wounded one after them.

Tseng lets them run, but only flips the safety catch and stows his pistol again once he's sure they're all gone. "Are you all right?"

Aerith nods, remembering all at once to breathe. "Y-yes, thanks to you," she says, fumbling with her buttons as Tseng approaches and bends to pick up the knife. It barely even registers in her mind that he was watching her, just the same as her attackers. That doesn't seem important right now, though she'll probably think differently once she's safe at home. "But what took you so long?"

"I could tell you were only buying time, waiting for someone to save you," says Tseng, straightening up again, and looks down at Aerith from the leader's former position. His expression is almost fierce, and the dagger in his hand makes his words feel like an accusation. If the veil behind his eyes has slipped enough for her to discern any emotion in them, his feelings on the matter must be powerful indeed. "Did you have a plan for if I had been compromised?"

"Didn't need one," says Aerith, frowning. "It's your job to protect me, and you did." That's the price the Turks pay for their surveillance. Everything in Midgar is a give-and-take, and this arrangement is no exception. In exchange for Aerith's privacy and her empty promise to come quietly, Shinra provides her with protection, and her mother with the bare minimum of financial compensation. Until such time as they see fit to destroy their lives, anyway.

"Even so, you shouldn't have to rely on us like that," says Tseng, retrieving Aerith's staff almost as an afterthought and handing it to her. "Technically, you're not even supposed to know we're here. No one is—those men included."

Aerith scowls. "Are you saying this is somehow my fault?"

"No," says Tseng, and starts moving. "I'm saying it's important that you can handle yourself in a situation like that, just in case."

Aerith hurries after him, using her staff as a walking stick to keep herself from wobbling. It isn't easy. Frightening as that experience may have been, Tseng himself also strikes an imposing figure, silhouetted against neon signs as they emerge back onto the main thoroughfare. His ordinarily brisk pace is slower than usual, perhaps to accommodate Aerith's gait, but he barely looks back at her and does not speak.

She can't help but feel that Tseng is acting as though nothing happened at all, almost like real-time revisionist history. The emotion that flared up so briefly has gone dormant again, as swiftly as though it never surfaced. But then again, perhaps it is simply invisible. After all, there is nothing rational about his recommendation that Aerith learn to defend herself. The Turks' task is to return Aerith to Shinra someday, but if she knows how to fight back, she will.

There are only so many reasons such a duty-driven man would suggest something so controversial. The memory of a jacket around her shoulders, and the warmth that came with it, gives Aerith an idea and the courage to voice it. "Are you… worried about me?"

Tseng glances back at Aerith once more, but neither stops moving nor answers her question. "You could have taken them, even as you are now. Don't hesitate next time."

His reproachful, condescending tone stirs the faintest embers of anger in Aerith's heart, and she cannot help but lash out. How dare Tseng reprimand her after what she just went through? "Even as I am now?" she repeats, brandishing her staff. "What do you want me to _do_ , Tseng? How am I supposed to learn how to use this with the Turks watching me all the time?"

"By letting us teach you."

That is reasonably close to the last thing Aerith expected Tseng to say, and she finds herself speechless. It's one thing to insinuate that the Turks should turn a blind eye, and another thing to suggest that they train her themselves. He wouldn't put his job on the line like this if he wasn't concerned for her on a very deep level. It looks like he's answered her question after all, but another has risen in its place.

 _Why?_

* * *

Twenty, now, and still no sign of a reunion.

At this point, Aerith has to admit that she may have been in denial at first. Zack may be alive, but he still hasn't come back, or even answered any of her messages. By now, there are parts of him she can only remember in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. Her heart has been set adrift, no closure for an anchor, and there's no sign that the situation will improve.

Even Tseng—guardian of her letters, her virtue, and her future—is keeping his distance. Aerith catches glimpses of him in the shadows now and again, like always, but he doesn't approach or respond when she tries to call him over. He's even delegated her combat training to Reno and Rude rather than facing her himself. Aerith wishes he'd stop making excuses and fight her, too.

"Tseng would rather this wasn't traced back to him," says Rude, when Aerith asks after him. "They're saying he's playing favorites as is. And besides, he doesn't wanna see you hurt." That's all he says on the matter, but that's enough. Aerith is used to his reticence. It is not that he has little to say, but that he has little reason to say _more_. Rude is all strength and silence; if any Turk truly does his job, it must be him.

Reno, of course, is another story entirely. He and Aerith always end up bickering about everything except Tseng, but even without understanding _him_ , at least they're under no delusion as to where they stand with each other: right on the edge of curiosity and animosity. Still, regardless of their personal feelings, orders are orders, and they're in no position to ignore them.

Besides, Reno finds a silver lining soon enough. It's not like Aerith can run anywhere or tell anyone if he beats her halfway to hell, especially if he does it in the name of simulated combat, so he enjoys taking full advantage of his free rein on their sparring days. But that doesn't stop him from complaining anyway.

"Tseng's sure bending a lot of rules for you," says Reno once. "And going behind some pretty important backs to do it, too. Feels like he cares about you more than he cares about me and Rude combined. There's no way he'd tell us to give you a leg up like this, otherwise. You putting out or something?"

Aerith tells the truth and says _of course not_ , but Reno's words stick in her mind like molasses, slow-moving and bittersweet. Most of the jokes he cracks are offhand, but all of them contain a grain of truth. Contrary to what he (and everyone else) usually insists, there is always a reason behind the things he says, whether he knows it or not. Jumping to such a conclusion, even in jest, brings up aspects of Aerith's situation she doesn't like to consider.

To Shinra, her only value comes in trading herself away in one sense or another, and her body already belongs to them in as many ways as they like. The Turks could leave her with much worse than a few bruises if they wanted. But Reno doesn't care enough to put in the effort; Rude never does more than what he's told; and Tseng… is inscrutable as ever.

Perhaps that's why Aerith would rather he train her, too. Compared to him, she's learned quite a bit about Reno and Rude since they started mentoring her. Rude spends more time showing her how to execute specific moves, but Reno does a better job showing her what a real fight is like. In both cases, purposely or not, they've shown her what she'll be up against—both personally and in combat.

Rude is himself, inside and out, but the only time she's ever seen Reno really look alive is when they duel, because he never goes easy on her. It's been over a year, and she still can't get the better of him for long. Truth be told, she likes it that way; it keeps her on her toes. More often than not, she winds up winded, seeing stars among the flowers. And it's _exhilarating_ , the way her body tingles from frustration as well as electricity. (So this is why others fight, and love it.)

Today is no exception. Aerith is lying beside her lilies, Reno sprawled on a pew, both catching their breath. He gets his back first. "Hey, flower girl," he says, and doesn't bother opening his eyes any more than he ever bothers calling her by her name. She doubts he even remembers it. Sometimes it's _old lady_ for her Ancient heritage, but more often it's _flower girl_.

Aerith turns her head to face him. "What is it, shady guy?"

"Wanna walk to the bar with me?"

Pushing herself upright, Aerith scowls at Reno. "Excuse me?"

"Hey, don't look at me like that," says Reno, swinging his legs off the pew in preparation to rise. "You're the _last_ person I'd ask out; I only date humans. But I do need a drink, and I am still on babysitting duty for a few more hours, so you'll need to come with me."

"Or, here's a thought, you could leave me alone for once."

"That's not happening," says Reno, sitting up and twisting both ways to crack his back. Aerith winces at the noise, and he grins at her discomfort, just like always. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink, too."

"No thanks." Aerith has had a taste or two of alcohol over the years, and doesn't hate it, but she's seen what too much of it can do to the people down here. Better to keep her distance, just in case. "It sounds more like I'd be keeping an eye on _you_ , anyway."

"Shows what you know," says Reno, getting to his feet and stretching luxuriously so that his words slur. "I only ever get drunk when someone else is buying. Tolerance is too damn high for it to be worth my own money."

"I still don't think this is a good idea," says Aerith, but has little choice but to stand up anyway. She doesn't like being much farther below Reno if she can help it, and she's already several inches shorter than him.

Reno heaves an exasperated, and possibly exaggerated, sigh. "Okay, so what if I get you something else nice? _And_ the Turks owe you a drink."

Aerith raises her eyebrows. Reno must be pretty thirsty if he's making an offer that generous instead of giving an order. Judging from his self-satisfied smirk, he knows he's piqued her interest, so there's no use in hiding it. "What kind of something else?"

Crossing his arms, Reno paces jauntily around Aerith to look her up and down, sharp eyes practically rending her dress. His are blue, too, like the sky she has almost stopped fearing. "How's about a new hair bow? That old thing's looking a little ratty."

Frowning, Aerith touches it automatically. This ribbon is a remnant of more pleasant days, when she always had something to look forward to. Someone to hold, if not to have—leaving her breathless and quivering for other reasons. And Reno must know what it means to her; his expression is expectant, anticipatory. So _this_ was why he didn't just drag her along. For whatever reason, he wanted to needle her about Zack.

But, to Aerith's surprise, she feels no pain at Reno's prodding: it seems the scar doesn't hurt anymore. And her ribbon _has_ gotten a little threadbare over the years. At this point, the only things that keep it tied are probably force of habit and a sense of obligation. It seems Reno speaks more truth than he realizes, as usual. Had he not pointed it out, Aerith might not have consciously recognized that retiring her bow from everyday use doesn't mean she'll lose the memories associated with it.

"Deal," says Aerith, and relishes Reno's astonishment. "As long as I get to pick it out. And as long as you don't tell anyone you bought me anything."

Mischief overtakes Reno's shock, and he laughs. "You kidding? Tseng's buying, whether he knows it or not."

"Tseng?" That brings Aerith up short. She doesn't know how or why that changes anything, but it does. The implications of _him_ buying her something feel different than with someone like Reno. More personal, like a real gift instead of just a bribe. And it makes her physically uncomfortable in a gut-fluttering way she can't explain, or perhaps simply doesn't want to.

"Yeah, Tseng," says Reno, peering at Aerith more closely. "I know he's no SOLDIER, or whatever it is that turns you on, but his gil's just as good, right?"

Aerith doesn't care about things like that, but gives a distracted nod anyway. If Reno is going to be using Tseng's money, she wishes he were here instead, so he could do it in person. Intentionally. It seems like, even though he's in charge of the Turks, he rarely has the chance to do anything himself—much less do what he _wants_.

And Aerith is beginning to wonder, more and more, what that is.

* * *

Twenty-one, and everything feels like it's either coming together or falling apart.

It's been five years exactly since Aerith first met Zack. Today should be special. Sacrosanct, even. But it feels like just another day instead, because lately, she's found herself reminiscing less and wanting more.

Aerith's heart isn't built for waiting. She misses the butterflies in her stomach and the buzz in her blood. She misses the giggles and blushes, the kisses and caresses. She misses the perfect wordless understanding gained from moments of pure intimacy, a magnetic push and pull between souls as well as bodies. She even misses the ache between her legs and the lies she had to tell her mother whenever she came home still starry-eyed.

And so Aerith finds her mind wandering more and more often back to the epiphany she had, lying naked on the altar with stained-glass light spilling into and out of and over her. How was it that such bodily ecstasy could make her forget her physical form altogether?

Yet, even then, Zack was more a catalyst than the cause. All-encompassing as that revelation may have been, it was not unique to the two of them. On the contrary, Aerith felt an overwhelming sense of connectivity to all things, expanding beyond herself and her partner to encompass an endless dance performed throughout all time. Individual identity is subservient to the drive for pleasure and procreation. Sex is no more or less sacred than any other instinctive ritual.

An end so long left loose can no longer tie her down.

Now, Aerith has only the Turks to keep her company, and they're hardly adequate replacements. Even so, they find their way into her fantasies now and again, alongside various imaginary lovers and the fading memory of Zack. Rarely at any length, but their shadows are all she can cling to these nights. And one of them in particular has come to haunt her.

Shinra's suspicions must have finally worn off, because Tseng has stopped avoiding Aerith by now. However, his invasions of her privacy are always maddeningly unobtrusive. Though their few conversations are invariably brief, they have have become more personal over the years. Each one serves as a reminder that Tseng is one of only a handful of people who truly know Aerith—who will _ever_ truly know Aerith, whether she likes it or not.

But, despite their eternal and inevitable proximity, they can never be friends. The intangible screen that separates them is not that of fate, but it is still ordained by powers far higher than any of theirs. Maybe the reason Tseng has surfaced in her thoughts so often lately is because of that unspoken law. (Evidently, it isn't only humans who want most what they can never have.)

It's enough to make Aerith wish they could at least be enemies instead. It'd be so much easier if she could bring herself to hate Tseng, if only so she'd appreciate how little time they have together instead of needing more. There are times, more and more frequent, when she wants him to stop acting like some sort of glorified chaperone and acknowledge what he really is, and ought to be. A stalker.

Call it vengeance, but she finds herself wanting to break him.

Tseng had the Turks teach Aerith exactly how to defeat him, but she has learned more of his weaknesses than he intended. Scattered as they may be, she's seen the signs over the years. Lengthening shifts, self-assigned. Lingering subconscious smiles, all contentment tinged with melancholy. A gaze more watchful than necessary. An uncannily retentive memory for her likes and dislikes, however trivial. A flicker across his face whenever she mentions Zack unexpectedly.

Everything is more obvious in hindsight, of course. It took a long time for Aerith to fit all the pieces together, and longer still for her to care, but now she sees the picture they create: a window of opportunity. After all, whether Tseng denies it to himself or only to the outside world is irrelevant. It would be easy, in either case, to provoke him—to make him crack, and shatter her in return.

Still, without any direct confirmation, all Aerith's observations amount to nothing more than idle guesswork and suppositions. If she wants to know where they stand once and for all, or maybe push him into standing somewhere else, she'll have to force the issue. She understands just enough about Tseng to know that he will not bare his heart voluntarily.

The more Aerith considers the idea, the more she likes it. Her pride is a more-than-fair price to pay for the truth, and if the stars align, she might be able to get her hands on more than that. If he holds even a part of her destiny in his hands, she might be able to reclaim it. He might even want to give it back.

But leverage, however precious, is not the point. This is no act of desperation. This isn't falling in love, or falling back on feminine wiles to earn favors. This is a direct challenge to Tseng and herself alike: Aerith knows _him_ , too, even if he'd rather she didn't. Manipulation is the last thing on her mind. All she wants is to understand him, and if he won't explain in words… well, actions speak louder.

It's not the first time Aerith has considered this, really, even if it's never seemed so feasible before. This collection of realizations has been a long time coming. Having been prevented from growing any closer to Tseng in mind or spirit, what else can she do but covet other, more manageable kinds of intimacy? Sex always told her more about Zack than their conversations, anyway. She could feel him, in more senses than the one.

Aerith is certain that it will be the same with Tseng. He's no SOLDIER, but he's still got whatever it is that turns her on. His body is as warm as any other, and even if he keeps his heart cold out of necessity, it isn't his heart she intends to touch. Nor does she have any intention of letting him touch hers. Let Aerith be the predator for once, and Tseng the prey, even if he insists on playing his predetermined role.

What will he taste like…?

Moistening her lips, Aerith comes back to herself, and glances out at the darkening sky. Sudden as such a decisive shift may feel, it has to be tonight. There's a point she needs to prove to herself, clearer than ever, and she never did learn how to wait. And besides, her mother is safely out of the house, so she won't be able to stop her from going out. (Not as long as she leaves a lie tacked on the door to reassure her.)

Laughing softly to herself, Aerith gets up and paces over to her wardrobe. Even if she's wrong, she'll at least get a reaction, and that's what she wants more than anything else. And if she's right, nothing Tseng does can be against her will as long as she wills it. No matter what happens tonight, she'll still come out on top. That's the important part.

The Turks still owe Aerith that drink, so she already has the beginnings of a plan, but she'll have to persuade Tseng to show himself first. He's been watching her for years, so he's probably desensitized to most kinds of temptation. She'll have to walk some sort of tightrope if she wants to draw him out.

But that's fine. Aerith likes a challenge.

Time to give him a show.


	2. overtime

" _What are you gonna do with Aerith?"  
_ " _I haven't decided."_

Aerith is definitely up to something.

Staff or no staff, no woman leaves the house in her undergarments without a plan. Tseng supposes a camisole and ankle-length petticoat aren't any more revealing than Aerith's everyday ensemble, but they're still very obviously underclothes. Her white half-slip is almost sheer in the wrong light, and the black of her top is a little too striking against her fair skin. But it's the lace trim that pushes Tseng over the edge.

Or maybe it's the effect it has on Aerith's self-styled admirers. He's never liked the way some men in the slums leer at her, much less how a few of them wolf-whistle. There are days he has half a mind to put them down like the dogs they are, and tonight it's more like three-quarters of a mind. Except that Tseng feels a little too much like a dog, himself, dragged along by an invisible leash.

Aerith has probably guessed that much, given how deftly she's exploiting his presence—placing herself at undue risk to prove some sort of point. But even now, for all his silent seething, Tseng can't bring himself to be truly angry. The Turks are in charge of Aerith's future as it is, so she should have the right to do as she pleases in the meantime. Even if it means forcing him to intervene.

Which she most definitely is. Aerith isn't planning to meet anyone, so this must be an elaborate trap. It takes a certain kind of fearlessness to catch a Turk, and Tseng would be lying if he said he didn't respect that. But no one in his line of work has qualms with evading the truth, so he slips easily back into exasperation as Aerith arrives at her destination.

The only drinking establishment in Sector 5.

Gazing through the window, Tseng reflects bitterly that he would be well within his rights to let her sit alone for awhile and burn under the gaze of her lowlife audience. She's made her bed, so she should lie in it. That outfit is more suited to a boudoir than a bar, anyway. But several men toss Aerith lascivious looks, one or two shifting in place as though to get up and approach her, and Tseng's body moves before his mind.

Before he fully understands his own plan, he finds himself shoving open the door. Stalking into the bar, he lets his hair down and runs a hand through it for a less polished look. Lengthening his stride, he sharpens his stare, watching Aerith's back as she seats herself at the bar. Her alleged admirers' attention shifts to Tseng, first confused and then resentful, as they realize he's going to beat them to her. Thankfully, that's enough to keep them from making any moves.

"If you wanted to talk, you could have just said so," says Tseng, sliding onto the barstool next to Aerith.

As usual, she isn't nearly surprised enough to see him. "Name one time you've ever listened." Aerith barely even glances at Tseng as she speaks, like his presence is just a formality. Expected. Taken for granted. Even his hair, which she has never seen down before, appears to be beneath her notice.

"You know why that is," says Tseng, biting back his irritation. Being ignored shouldn't bother him so much, considering his position. "I do my job. No more, no less."

"Uh-huh." Aerith never believes anything Tseng tells her, yet it seems she still believes in _him_. He supposes she might not be able to help trusting him any more than he can help trusting her. "It's just that you're not doing such a great job of walking your talk. Telling me not to rely on you, and then being this reliable. It makes me wonder how far you'll go, that's all."

"Only as far as you make me," says Tseng, eyeing her mistrustfully. "Did your mother let you go out dressed like that?"

Aerith glances down at herself, as though she has already forgotten what she's wearing. (Tseng envies her that luxury.) "She's visiting a friend for the evening. I left a note saying I was going to visit a friend, too."

"Is that what I am to you?"

"Why don't you tell me?" asks Aerith, raising her eyebrows. "We've got plenty of time. The Turks owe me a drink."

"What?"

"Ask Reno."

Tseng has a sudden urge to send his colleague a strongly-worded text message, but fights it back and silently signals the bartender instead. Knowing Reno, a scolding would have no effect whatsoever. And knowing Aerith, she isn't going to leave until she gets what she wants.

So it happens that Tseng buys her a drink.

Just one. And he doesn't partake. Unlike a certain redhead, Tseng has enough pride in his work that he prefers to do it sober. And given that his proximity to Aerith is a little intoxicating as it is, it's a bad idea to mix that effect with alcohol.

For a long time, they say nothing. Aerith nurses her drink, and Tseng an exaggerated grudge. He has won the privilege of her exclusive company, and now he must ensure he keeps it. He can't move any closer without her noticing, but keeps himself oriented toward her, legs slightly apart. It's important that everyone here understands that she is _his_ , to use vocabulary they might understand.

Once the basis of his body language is established, Tseng leans against the counter, throwing a glare over his shoulder to survey the rest of the room with a warning scowl. Meeting anyone's eyes will be taken as a direct challenge, so he keeps his line of sight firmly above his potential rivals' heads. But from time to time, he glances over at Aerith again, and sooner or later he can't help staying that way.

She hasn't changed. As far as he can remember, she _never_ has. She is his constant, his sole what-if, the center of all his wishful thinking. Is it a sense of responsibility, or the same fascination that has ensnared so many others, that draws him to her? Is she business, or pleasure…?

Perhaps neither. Even if he weren't confined to this suit, Tseng would still resign himself to admiring Aerith from afar. He's seen her turn her suitors down before, and she isn't gentle. There's a reason the Turks have never had to act on their orders not to let anyone get too close to her. Yet, paradoxically, Tseng himself now sits so near Aerith that it scrambles his senses.

The only warning he has before she looks him full in the face is her lips, pursed in an unconscious pout. "Tseng," says Aerith, and he can tell from the clarity of his name on her lips that she isn't drunk. Just a little tipsy, maybe. A little more agitated. "Have you ever been in love?"

If Tseng has a heart anymore, it skips a beat. As unprepared as he is for the question, he is even less so for how readily Aerith meets his eyes, demanding an answer. It's only thanks to his years of training that he can provide a quick lie without a stutter. "I don't think so."

Aerith nods slowly. She still doesn't believe him. "Me neither."

That catches Tseng off-guard. He's seen the way Aerith acts around Zack, even now that he's gone. Sometimes she smiles to herself when she's gardening, just sadly enough that he knows she's thinking of him again. And, given that she wheeled that old flower wagon to Sector 8 almost every day until it fell apart, Tseng was more surprised than anyone else when Aerith bought a new hair ribbon.

With his money. Reno stole it, like the petty thief he once was, but was bold enough to return the change in person. _It's just like you bought it for her yourself, boss. I even told her who to thank_. Judging by his mischievous grin, Reno knew he'd never get in trouble if he spent his supervisor's money on Aerith. And he probably also knew why.

Aerith glances at Tseng sideways. He hasn't allowed his expression to change, but she has grown sensitive to his silences. "Zack's been gone longer than I ever knew him. I thought we had something for awhile, but I don't know anymore. Hard to say if it would've worked out."

"I thought you were convinced he's still alive."

"Oh, I _know_ he's still alive. I can tell. But if he hasn't come home yet, I don't think he's going to." Aerith takes another, thoughtful sip of her drink. "Maybe he can't. It doesn't really change things either way."

As usual, her guesses are far closer to the truth than is comfortable. Zack's life has been in Hojo's hands for years, and last Tseng heard, he was labeled a failed experiment. If he isn't dead already, he probably will be sooner or later. It's a grim truth, and not one he enjoys considering, but a truth nonetheless. (Not that Aerith believes it.)

"Maybe something's wrong with me. Or maybe whatever we had just wasn't enough, I don't know." Aerith drains her glass all at once, and doesn't even grimace, almost like she's used to drinking. "But it was fun while it lasted. I guess that's all that matters, right? That's all that's supposed to matter."

Tseng isn't sure how he should respond to that, so he doesn't. He's been a Turk for long enough that he doesn't have a clear understanding of how conventional relationships work, much less the emotions that are supposed to go with them.

Even family comes secondary to his job, thanks to his parents' shining example. As a pair of austere first-generation Wutaian immigrants, they always valued Tseng more for what he did than who he was. And, as tensions between Shinra and their home country mounted, they sold their son to the Turks as soon as he hit his teens, just to keep themselves out of the line of fire.

Aerith was Tseng's first real mission, at the tender age of seventeen. Shinra needed to strike a balance between youth and authority if they wanted to recover her. Cissnei was closer to Aerith's age, but nowhere near imposing enough. As a result, Tseng was assigned to persuade Hojo's prize specimen to return to captivity. Or, failing that, pay off the woman who took her in.

But in the end, Tseng was powerless in the face of Aerith's frightened ferocity, a desperate will to live on her own terms that he had never found. He let her deny the truth and slip out the door. He sat down to tea and listened to her adoptive mother's story of their life together. And he marveled at the strength of the bond between a girl and a stranger, stronger than the bond between himself and his own blood relatives.

Perhaps that was why Tseng left empty-handed, bowing his head before his superiors and asking whether constant surveillance would be a possible alternative. They only forgave him after Rufus Shinra himself stepped in to point out the merits of his suggestion. Allowing an Ancient to grow up and flourish naturally, within reason, may yet prove beneficial in some way.

Which was nothing more than a fortunate coincidence. How much of Tseng's generosity was vicarious desire for his own freedom, he does not like to think. He may have devoted his life to Shinra, but he has always seen himself in Aerith. There is still a part of him, more influential than he likes to admit, that yearns for a future of his own making. Tseng knows, from the way Aerith watches what little she can see of the sky, that she feels the same way.

There are times he wonders what would happen if he ran away with her, at least in the weeks or months preceding their inevitable retrieval and his execution. And there are other times he thinks he knows. Usually when he can't sleep, lying alone in bed and wishing he didn't know what he was missing.

The Turks may be discouraged from forming serious emotional attachments of any kind, but there are no rules surrounding shallower kinds of dalliances. Even Shinra understands that there is only so much that can be done to curtail certain appetites. Disinterested and discreet as he may be, Tseng knows it is better to control and direct his passions than suppress them entirely.

Yet, despite that knowledge, he hasn't taken a lover in years. The others think it's because Tseng has never been particularly lustful even on his most intense days, and he tells himself it's because he is simply too busy to indulge in such frivolity. But if anyone could line up all his flings, they'd see the pattern that made him stop.

Slender, pale-skinned, light-eyed brunettes.

"Hey, Tseng," says Aerith suddenly, and he turns back toward her. "What do you think of me? And don't just try to think of what I want to hear," she adds, as he starts doing exactly that. "What I want to hear is the truth, so answer the question. Honestly."

Tseng would sooner spill Shinra secrets than put into words what has so long remained nameless. "Classified."

"Come on. I'll tell you what I think of you."

"I already know what you think of me."

"Oh really?" asks Aerith, smiling in a _bet-you-don't_ kind of way. "Do tell."

Tseng sighs. He doesn't know why he feels so compelled to prove her wrong, since he was raised never to let anyone provoke him into a response, but Aerith is an exception to his every rule. "You don't hate me, but you've never liked me," he says, recalling how the warmth in her eyes is always extinguished whenever they meet his. "You think I'm a meddlesome liar with nothing better to do than watch you too closely."

Aerith laughs, though Tseng can't imagine what she finds funny. "You're not very observant, for someone whose job is keeping an eye on me."

Tseng gives her a look. Most others would beg to differ. "Then enlighten me."

"I just did. You don't watch me closely enough. But more importantly…" Aerith's smile vanishes, and she looks up at Tseng, searching his expression. "I don't like you, and I don't hate you, but I _do_ want you. To meddle more."

After everything he's seen, Tseng doesn't consider himself easily disarmed, but that does it. The pacing of Aerith's words is such that he isn't sure whether he's imagining the double meaning. But his heart doesn't seem to care, racing far beyond his thoughts to the broken dreams he's buried beneath his bed.

Aerith, trying not to look too smug, can see she's touched a nerve. (Tseng wonders what his tells are.) "Are you going to tell me what you think of me now?"

"I said no, and I meant it," says Tseng, scowling.

His expression would turn any of his subordinates pale, but Aerith only tilts her head. "I've seen the way you look at me, you know. I think I've seen you smile more than anyone else, all those times you think I'm not looking. That's why I asked if you'd ever been in love." She looks Tseng up and down appraisingly. "You have a nice smile, you know."

"Oh." Tseng can't think of any other response. Aerith is always sincere, even when he'd rather she wasn't, and the look in her eyes is unnervingly honest. Even in her softer moments, he has never discerned anything more than curiosity when she looks at him—the same open expression with which she looks at most everything. This is no different, but it runs much deeper.

"But it's not always there," continues Aerith. "You like it when I talk about myself. But whenever I say anything about Zack, you shut down right away." She pauses pointedly. "Look, even now, you already want me to stop."

Sometimes it feels as though Aerith can see straight through Tseng, reading him like a diary and lingering on all his private regrets. Tonight is one of those times. "You should let him go, Aerith."

"I already have. Seems to me like you're the one who can't."

Tseng lets out a short breath. "I'm not going to argue with you about this."

"Then what do you want to do instead?"

"Take you home."

Aerith smirks. "I bet you do."

Tseng looks away sharply as he realizes the implications, but finds that her widening smile is burned into his retinas like the sun. Lifting a self-conscious hand to his mouth, he clears his throat. "That's not what I…"

"Yes, it is," says Aerith, half interrupting, and Tseng glances back at her in muted astonishment to find her watching him intently. "It doesn't look the same on you as it did on him, but I can still see it. He always had a question in his eyes. You look like you're afraid of the answer."

"Stop talking," says Tseng, almost before Aerith finishes. "This isn't the kind of discussion we should be having in a public place."

"You're right. This is the kind of discussion we should be having between kisses in a dark alley." Aerith says it dispassionately, almost sardonically, but she is dead serious. Her tone isn't indifferent, but the one she reserves for stating the obvious, or an inevitability.

Tseng stares at Aerith in search of an explanation, but she offers none. More alarming than anything else is the fact that she isn't drunk, but the only thing he can think to say is, "I'm cutting you off."

"Go ahead," says Aerith, sliding her glass towards Tseng as he rises. Only a few ice cubes remain. "It doesn't change anything. And that's all I'm good for, anyway." Her phrasing is deliberate, pointed as her gaze. In the eyes of Shinra, she is nothing more than a possession, or a plaything. A doll, or more often a key to everyone's happiness except her own.

Tseng likes to think she means more to him, but sometimes he wonders how true that really is.

"Well?" asks Aerith, getting to her feet. "If you want to take me home so badly, then take me home. But _I_ want to stop by the church first."

"Give me one good reason I should let you." Tseng knows himself just well enough to know that if he spends much longer around Aerith in this state, his meticulously maintained composure—already beginning to crack—will shatter entirely.

Aerith smiles, perhaps at the notion of Tseng _letting_ her do anything. "I'll give you plenty once we get there," she says, and his heart almost stops again. "I think we both have a few sins to confess. Or maybe commit."

Tseng conceals his disquiet behind narrowed eyes. In the slums, everything comes at a price, and bartering is Aerith's second language. She must have some ulterior motive. "You're not being very subtle."

"I'm not a Turk," says Aerith, shrugging. "I don't need to be."

"If you're just looking for a warm body, Reno would serve you just as well."

" _Reno_ doesn't serve anyone except himself."

"And you think I do?"

Aerith's eyes sparkle, and she sways closer. Just a little. "That's what I want to find out."

"I know you don't love me." Tseng cannot ask why she's doing this directly, because a part of him doesn't care, but Aerith catches the question in his voice, and answers it.

"I'm just curious, that's all." Aerith reaches her fingers up to toy with the zipper on Tseng's jacket, and his breath catches. The motion reminds him a little too much of his _other_ zipper. "Aren't you curious, too? You've watched me for long enough that you must be. Zack never knew you were there, but I did."

Gritting his teeth as unwelcome memories spill into his head, souring all the sweetness of impossibility, Tseng swats Aerith's hand away. After fishing around in his pockets for a moment, he throws down some gil on the counter for the barkeep—probably more than necessary—and takes off. He half thinks Aerith will call after him, but she says nothing. She simply takes up her staff, and follows with her quick light footsteps.

As they hurry on through the night in breathless silence, Tseng numbs his disarrayed thoughts, focusing his entire being on striding forward. He does not need his conscious mind to guide him through something as easy as escorting her home.

Or so he thinks.

By the time Tseng remembers to put up his hair again, much more haphazardly than usual, his feet have carried him not to to Aerith's house, but to her church. The realization brings with it a chill he cannot escape, and he suppresses a shiver with difficulty as he recognizes that he has already lost. And that Aerith is waiting to see whether he will keep walking or stop for good.

Tseng could try to pretend that he never hesitated, but she'll know the truth even if he tries to deny it, and will be sure to exploit that next time. The least he can do, for the sake of damage control as well as what remains of his dignity, is accept his defeat on his own terms, and approach the door.

Halting Aerith with a hand, Tseng enters the church first, but she brushes past him before he can finish examining the interior. "You don't have to be so cautious," she says, walking down the aisle without so much as a glance back at him. "After Zack fell through the roof, people started avoiding the church. They don't know where the hole came from, so they think the place is falling apart."

"You're too reckless."

"By your standards, everyone is." Aerith makes her way to the back, sets down her staff, and bends to retrieve a couple lanterns from behind the altar. "I left these here years ago in case anyone needs them, but I don't think they've ever been used."

After inserting fire materia into both lamps to light them, Aerith sets them down several feet away from one another and rises. As she turns to face Tseng, her petticoat spins with the motion, and the faint glow of firelight transforms her cotton half-slip into a rich diaphanous skirt.

Tseng's thoughts skip like a record. This does not escape Aerith's notice.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asks, placing her hands coyly behind her back. "We have a conversation to finish, in case you've forgotten."

Tseng takes a deep and silent breath, closing his eyes briefly to hide from himself. "I have nothing to say to you." If this is a dream, giving voice to it will wake him, and if it isn't a dream, he'll wish it was before long. Better hold out for as long as possible, so it might be easier to say it isn't his fault when his sense of restraint gives out.

"Then why didn't you take me straight home?"

"Weren't _you_ going to tell _me_?" It comes out as more of a challenge than Tseng intends, and he almost bites his tongue. The last thing he needs is to inadvertently encourage Aerith's advances.

But she does not respond to his unintentional dare as expected, shaking her head. "You already know. You're just not saying it." Aerith looks at Tseng for a long moment, her expression uncomfortably unreadable. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more serious. "Will you at least answer something for me?"

"That depends on the question."

Aerith nods. That much is a given, with the Turks. "We both know you'll have to take me back to Shinra sooner or later, so… why did you leave me with any hope of a normal life in the meantime? Why did you…" She swallows, curling her hands into trembling fists. "Why did you let me have Zack?"

Tseng looks down at Aerith for a moment. He longs for the strength to hold his tongue, but he must at least offer a response, even if it can never be the whole truth and nothing but. "I could see how much you needed someone like him. That's all."

"You could see a lot more than that, some of the days he came over," says Aerith, her tone too sharp even to be dismissive, and Tseng's stomach lurches. "At least Reno and Rude trusted him enough to let us be, instead of hanging around like you."

If Aerith is trying to put Tseng on the defensive, it's working. He narrows his eyes, but keeps his voice as even and matter-of-fact as possible as he delivers the same line he repeats to himself in times of doubt. "Surveillance is surveillance, no matter the circumstances."

It is a convenient excuse, nothing more, and both of them know it. " _Surveillance_ must have given you some good memories to hold onto for when you can't make your own," says Aerith, almost sneering. She hasn't spoken to Tseng so contemptuously in years. "How often do you think of them, when you're lying alone in bed?"

Tseng flushes. "Watch your mouth."

"I'm busy. You watch it. Aren't you used to that by now?"

Between the lightning in his veins and the thunder of his pulse, Tseng can barely breathe. He feels, more than thinks, that Aerith has pushed him to the brink of a momentous and irreversible decision—one which has, ultimately, already been made. She's right, after all: he already knows why he is here. Her invitation is clear, and his self-control has grown brittler these long lonely years. He's kept his distance long enough, watching and waiting and making her do the same.

Still, Tseng must create a delicate balance if he wishes to quiet Aerith and indulge his own desires without losing himself to them. She sees his hesitation, and the impulse to speak again flashes across her face in a twitch of her lips and a glint in her eyes, but she remains silent.

That, more than anything she might have said, convinces Tseng to lean down and kiss her.

The risk is neither calculated nor spontaneous. Aerith's mouth is warm and eager, supple lips pressed against his, then parting beneath them. At the soft and half-unexpected touch of their tongues, Tseng senses the point of no return approaching much too quickly, and forces himself to try and break away. But Aerith grips his jacket to pull him further down instead, and he doesn't have the will to resist anymore.

Tseng's thoughts start slipping through his fingers, woven in Aerith's flower-scented hair, fidgeting with her layered straps. As she presses against him, he presses back automatically, letting her suffocate him. There is no sound in his head save the occasional static of a forgotten doubt, but it is enough for them to dance. And _she_ is leading.

When they pull apart, it is only because they are almost winded. The air tastes different, like a coming storm, and feels too thin in Tseng's empty lungs. His head spins so that he can scarcely think, too light and too hot and much too ready for more. And in the midst of it all, an unpleasant and undeniable certainty: he must leave now, or be irretrievably lost.

"Did you enjoy that?" asks Aerith, almost taunting, as she catches her breath.

Tseng glares at her. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"You're still holding back, though," says Aerith, taking a measured step back. "It takes two to make this work, and I'd rather have your undivided attention. So if you're going to fight me on this, then… _fight me_."

As Aerith takes what is unmistakably a combat stance, Tseng can only stare at her. "What?"

"You heard me," says Aerith, still breathing hard, but does not move. "I can tell you're too tangled up in your shoulds and shouldn'ts to bother taking what you really want. To the victor go the spoils, and you know I can't beat you." She tilts her head, somewhere between innocent and insolent. "I need you to let go, Tseng. If you need an excuse, here it is."

Tseng has never hated Aerith so much as in this moment. Anger simmers in his stomach and spreads its heat through his body, stirring his blood. For better or worse, he is as incapable of denying her as he is his superiors. And after that kiss, just enough of him wants to accept her challenge that he has no choice but to do so.

Resentfully obedient, Tseng takes off his jacket and throws it onto the nearest pew. "You want me to lose control."

"I _want_ to know more about your conscience," says Aerith, with an air of unconcern, though Tseng knows she is observing his reactions closely. "You do have one, even if you like to think you don't, but what are its limits? How far can you bend before you break?"

Aerith isn't even trying to disguise her own self-interest anymore, if she ever was. Tseng supposes that is ordinarily something he likes about her, though in the moment, the line between love and hate is a great deal thinner than he thought. "I don't want to hurt you," he hears himself say. Not even now. Given their situation, it might be more convenient if Tseng were lying, but Aerith's honesty has bound him to the truth.

She laughs. "It's your job to hurt me, Tseng. Don't pretend you don't know that."

Tseng's shock ebbs quickly into resignation, and he prepares himself for combat. Aerith might make a good Turk in her own right, if her morals were a little looser and her lips a little tighter. After all, she knows where they stand better than Tseng ever could. Some distance apart, facing one another, tentative yet resolute.

Aerith has lowered her guard, probably in an attempt to provoke an attack. However, in unarmed combat, Tseng makes a point always to let his opponent have the first strike, and Aerith is far less patient than he. It takes only a few moments before she takes a resigned breath, ducks forward, and takes a clumsy swing at him.

In a flash, Tseng imagines blocking Aerith's punch, bringing both his fists down on the top of her spine and his knee up into her diaphragm to end this before it begins. Instead, he just leans back and steps aside.

Tseng can tell, from the way Aerith stops and consciously readjusts her stance, that she is hesitant in spite of her determination. Even considering her sessions with Reno, she has not overcome the natural reluctance that comes with inexperience. Aerith has never faced Tseng before, and she cannot get a feel for his style for as long as he refuses to attack. So he continues playing his defensive game.

A minute or more passes, full of swings and misses, blocked punches and evaded kicks. Aerith redoubles her attacks with a stubborn scowl, but the more her movements are fueled by frustration, the easier they are for him to avoid. And it does not take long before she loses her last scrap of patience.

"Let _go_!" she exclaims, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face, and charges. This is no punch, but a full-on tackle; if Tseng dodges again, Aerith might hurt herself.

Catching her by both wrists, he pushes against her, putting a stop to her momentum. Sweeping his leg behind hers to unbalance her, he moves slightly forward to tip her over, almost like a dip to complete their dance. And, as she falls backwards with a little cry, he lets go of one of her wrists and holds her suspended just above the ground by the other.

"I win," says Tseng, and drops Aerith the last few inches.

It's almost an accident; his grasp was already weakening. Aerith lies where she falls, panting as much from emotion as exertion, and Tseng gazes down at her splayed out beneath him. This must be the same reason Shinra built its headquarters on a plate above the slums. To look down on what belongs to them, and all they have the authority to ruin.

Standing on a precipice like this, jumping has never seemed so easy, and Tseng's impulse control has eroded so that he cannot help but step off the edge. As Aerith shifts in place as if to rise, he plants his foot squarely on her torso. Just enough pressure to keep her down, and no more. And she _smiles_ , not in exhaustion but in newfound excitement, some unknown flame kindled inside her.

"That's more like it," murmurs Aerith, resting a hand on Tseng's shoe almost tenderly, and stirs beneath him in restless anticipation. Alive, womanly, wanting. She's making it hard to think straight. "You don't have to hold back anymore, Tseng. Aren't you ready to take me yet?"

Tseng almost swallows, but forces himself to exhale slowly instead. Releasing her with more difficulty than anticipated, he sinks to one knee as deliberately as possible. "Can you make me forget myself?"

Aerith shakes her head. "Can you make me feel human?"

An affirmative burns in Tseng's throat like liquor, but he swallows it. "No." (Yet, even knowing their limitations, they have both come too far to stop now.)

Taking Tseng by the tie, Aerith pulls him forward, dragging him down to her level, and there are no more words. Nor is there any real need of them, for once. The desperation in their kiss says it all.

If Tseng is touch-starved, Aerith's overtures have made him _ravenous_. His past lovers may have gratified his bodily desires, but they always missed his heart. By contrast, Aerith finds it effortlessly, expertly, stabbing into it with all the cruelty of innocence. Even if she knows—and she must, given all her earlier talk of love—it makes no difference. She will not stay her wandering hands.

To Aerith, this is only a way of satisfying her so-called curiosity. But to Tseng, every caress means infinitely more than it should. It is not that he has anything less to lose now, but that he no longer cares about losing it. Aerith can feel it, judging by the almost sly look in her merciless half-lidded eyes.

A part of Tseng understands that this is just another phase of their sparring match, that she has let down her guard to provoke him into making the first move. The difference is that this time, he has chosen to oblige her, because there _is_ no other choice. Shinra gave Tseng a position of dominance long ago, but only Aerith ever could have enticed him to accept it.

Her breath hitches as he slides a knee between her legs, and their latest kiss breaks. Straightening up momentarily, Tseng loosens his tie and tosses it into the flowerbed, then unfastens a couple buttons on his shirt before pulling it over his head and—

He notices Aerith rising an instant before she shoves him down, and there is no time to react before his back hits the floorboards. His body twitches in an automatic instinct to throw her off, but he forces himself to freeze rather than risk injuring her, and she clambers forward to kneel over him. Purposefully, tantalizingly close, yet still not touching.

"I saw that," says Aerith, toying with the lace on her camisole, and Tseng is transfixed by the motion of her fingers. "You let me take control, like I'm just another woman, and you're just another man. Some might call you soft." She sinks down onto Tseng's torso, then slides back until she lies almost parallel, giving him a view down her top as she grinds against him pointedly. "If they couldn't feel you."

Tseng's breath shortens, his thoughts becoming alarmingly sparse, but he manages to find some words. "I prefer not to think about work when I'm off-duty." He must speak more quickly than usual to keep his voice from shaking or breaking, but at least it comes out steady.

Aerith sighs. "And how long have you been off-duty? Fifteen seconds?"

The question is rhetorical, so Tseng does not bother making a reply. Instead, he relaxes into Aerith's touch as she sits up again and traces all his scars. He wouldn't have thought them visible by lantern-light, but somehow or other, it seems she can sense them.

Closing her eyes, Aerith brushes her hands along his skin in agonizing slowness… and makes no further moves. It feels almost as though she is in a trance, or engaging in some kind of meditation, but Tseng himself grows more and more restless, until finally he clears his throat slightly. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Pausing in her motions, Aerith opens her eyes and frowns down at Tseng as if the answer should be obvious. "Getting to know you."

Tseng scowls, propping himself up on his elbows. He loses his patience even less frequently than he loses his temper, but no one else has ever made him wait so long in such a vulnerable position. "Most women get to know a man _before_ they have him flat on his back."

Fury flashes cross Aerith's face, passing so quickly Tseng might have imagined it but for the spite in her voice. "I tried, but you never let me. Sometimes I wonder whether you're not human, either." She curls her fingernails into his heart so that he inhales sharply. "Maybe that's why neither of us have ever been in love."

Aerith knows that is a lie just as much as Tseng, and it shows in her voice. All at once, he feels the same sudden surge of anger he saw on her face, and sits up beneath her abruptly. Seizing her by the shoulders, he finds the strength to look her fully in the eye for the first time tonight. He sees straight through to her soul, and sees her looking right back into his, any fear of what she might find overridden—

But Tseng stops before he even opens his mouth, because Aerith smiles again, almost in relief this time. Rather than offer an explanation, she tugs his hair loose again so that it falls around his shoulders. A mark of dishonor, not that she knows it, or would act any differently if she did.

" _There_ you are," murmurs Aerith, flicking the band far away, and kisses Tseng again.

Any offense he might have taken vanishes into the ether, as do all his unasked questions. Or perhaps they are simply redirected into the maddeningly slight friction between them, and the unbearable heat it generates.

By now, Aerith's camisole is riding up in back to reveal part of her waist, and she makes a noise of discomfort as Tseng pushes it further up. Pulling away momentarily, she tugs her top up and off, bucking her hips to move impossibly closer. Tseng does not so much as look at Aerith's bra (dark and unadorned, from what he can see) before he unhooks it and lets her cast it aside. He knows, from the way she kisses him again, that she is impressed.

Running his hands up and down Aerith's bare back, now the pads of his fingers, now the edges of his nails, Tseng relishes her shudder and half a precious moan. As if in retaliation, she weaves her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, eliciting a vocalization so involuntary that he scarcely recognizes himself as its source. Senses sharpening as Aerith goes for the jugular, her lips on his throat, Tseng grips fistfuls of her petticoat to stabilize himself.

Her string of kisses to the side of his neck is punctuated by a not-so-gentle bite that draws out a hitching gasp. And then a reversal, almost as instinctive, as Tseng lunges forward again. Pinning Aerith down, he presses insistent kisses to her chest, just above where her neckline used to be. Keeping his hands busy with her breasts, he moves his mouth farther up, breathing into her skin, watching the bruises blossom like a chain of flowers through half-closed eyes.

Tseng will not be the only one left marked by this encounter.

"That's enough of that," says Aerith, a little indistinctly, and cups Tseng's cheek firmly enough that the motion might have started as a slap. As she brings his lips back down to hers, she hooks a smooth leg around his back, and their bodies ripple together. Yet, even at their closest, they are still a world apart. Too far.

Kisses alone are no longer enough to close the distance, so Tseng finds himself pushing up Aerith's skirt in anticipation of what comes next. (She's been on birth control ever since Zack came into her life, which is good, because he is no longer capable of considering consequences.) She laughs at his ardor, the warm sweet mellow sound of permission granted, and he moves back momentarily, as much to cool off as to see what he's doing.

Once Tseng gets Aerith's slip out of the way, he discovers that she isn't wearing any shorts. Just black panties, polka-dotted white… and, yes, trimmed with lace. The only reason the rest of her contrasting ensemble matches. Curling a finger around the gusset, Tseng tries not to shiver at the wet, and then yanks them down. He entertains the idea of starting her off, but the urgency of his own condition demands that he free himself first.

Tseng gets as far as unbuckling his belt before he hesitates again, and gazes down at Aerith. Not at the one part of her body he has only ever imagined before, but at her expectant expression, her glistening eyes. He needs to realize that no short-term satisfaction can be worth what may be permanent damage to his heart. He needs a reason to stop—something, anything, to remind him of his place.

And he cannot find it.

Aerith traces his thoughts effortlessly, and stirs to draw him out of them. "Tseng," she whispers, looking him full in the face with all the earnestness of her desire, and the name he chose has never sounded like a prayer before. "I _am_ your duty. Complete me."

As Aerith speaks to quiet Tseng's apprehension, calm certainty envelops him with all the uncontrollable totality of blacking out. She is right, and that is more than enough to override his formless protests. With a faint smile he cannot quite feel, Tseng gives himself wordlessly over to Aerith's will, taking off his belt and moving his last layers aside in preparation to obey. There will be plenty of time for regret tomorrow.

In the meantime, perhaps she can make him forget after all.


End file.
